


Enchanter

by elleorwhatever



Series: Healer [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Kirkwall, The Gallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6422266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleorwhatever/pseuds/elleorwhatever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9:34 Dragon.  Cullen Rutherford and now Enchanter Magda Trevelyan are starting to find themselves entangled, despite the fact that they would both prefer to just do their jobs.  And growing tension in Kirkwall and The Gallows exacerbates the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enchanter

“Attention,” Cullen barked.

The neat and orderly configuration of recruits, knights, corporals, and lieutenants snapped to.  The courtyard vibrated with the ringing peal of armor against armor.  Cullen tucked his gauntleted hands behind his back.  His eyes ran over the ranks.  The men and women, the boys and girls, that were under his hand.  His hand sometimes squeezed, sometimes guided.  But they were all his.  He knew their names.  He knew which ones were absent for various reasons.  Guard duty (two lieutenants, four corporals, eighteen knights).  Injury and sick leave (Knight Stanbury, Knight Lea, Corporal Hill, Recruit Nealson).  He knew their families.  These templars were his.

“Salute,” Cullen barked.

The snap of the salute cracked the quiet morning air.  The calls of gulls and the boom of the distant bay filled the following silence.  Meredith stepped forward, beside Cullen.

“At ease,” Meredith said.  Quietly.  In the way she could say things so small and quiet that they would furl until her presence was all they could hear or see or know.

The columns relaxed.

Meredith gazed over them.  Her recruits, knights, corporals, and lieutenants.  Her hand held them, too.  Cullen wondered about her hands.  He had thought once they guided.  But you can guide in many ways.  You can guide to many places.  You can guide to a rise, and you can guide to a fall.  Cullen wondered about his hands.  Where was he guiding, if he was guiding at all?

“Several things must be addressed,” Meredith said, by way of preamble. “First of all, I am very pleased with the recent class of promoted recruits.  We’ve four fine new knights amongst us.  Four new brothers and sisters in arms.”

She paused, and Cullen watched the four new knights swell with pride.  There might have been clapping if not for the quietude of Meredith’s vivid blue eyes.  And for the fact that four knights out of a class was a pitiful showing.  The average had been three times that.  But the numbers had been decreasing steadily over the years.

“Next, two new policies.  Starting this week, there will be weekly interviews with each of you. With me.”

Meredith paused.  Cullen kept his face placid, with a mild sternness that spoke of authority.  He did not allow his face to show the surprise he felt.  This was the first he’d heard of such a policy.  But he did not allow his jaw to tighten with irritation at not being privileged with the Knight-Commander’s counsel.

“This is to better know the small details of our order here, and for me to provide direction where it is needed.  I am your commander.  You may confide in me at any time, over any matter.  If you need speak to me outside of your interview, this is of course encouraged.  Schedules will be posted outside my door, and in the barracks.”

She scanned over the templars.  There was not much on their faces.  Like Cullen, they felt the guidance of Meredith’s hand, they felt the weight of their duty.  And they did not show much on their faces.

“Finally, I know in the past we have cooperated with the citizens and the governance of Kirkwall in hope that our influence could better the community.  We are as much apart of Kirkwall as anyone else.  However, with the growing political unrest in the city, I have decided to end any and all work done with the assistance of civilians.  No unauthorized information shall leave the Gallows.  And fraternization shall be kept to a minimum.”

Cullen felt his cheeks burn.  He felt this last may be directed specifically at him.  Perhaps a few other officers as well, but most definitely at him.

Meredith paused, again.  Such a skillful conduct of quiet, carrying words and meaningful pauses.  She gazed at them.

“Any questions can be directed to your superiors.  Dismissed.”

The templars dispersed with quiet clanking and rustling and whispering.  Meredith turned to Cullen.

“With me, Captain,” she said.

“Commander,” he said, falling into line at her side.

Together they strode across the courtyard, parting the knots of templars with flurries of bobbed heads murmured salutations.  Light cut over the battlements, shot across the gray stone, and carved stark the templar blazons on armor.  Cullen followed Meredith through the halls to her office.  The Tranquil, Elsa, opened the door for them, bowing slightly.

Meredith sat, gesturing across her desk to the other chair.  Cullen sat as well.  She looked at him and studied with her sharp eyes.  She began to chuckle.

“Maker, Cullen, at least  _ try  _ to hide your sullenness.”

Cullen flushed. “Commander, I’m not-”

She waved at him.

“No, I understand,” she said. “I went over your head on this one.”

He bent his head slightly. “You are my superior.  My duty will always be to you, even if yours can not always be to me.”

She smiled thinly and leaned back.

“You know, many people wondered at your quick rise when you first came to Kirkwall.  So young, and I almost immediately appointed you Knight-Captain.”

“I hope in these past four years I’ve proven deserving of your esteem.”

“You have,” she said.  She said, but her eyes burned on something unsaid. “I promoted you because of Knight-Commander Greagoir.  He spoke highly of you.  And because I saw in you what it takes to lead a circle.  A strong will, discipline, and willingness to make the decisions, and commit the acts, that are not easy.”

She clasped her hands on the desktop.

“The situation with the Qunari is worsening.  They have lingered for far too long.  And the Viscount is too afraid to force them out.  Perhaps he is right; they are vicious warriors.  But their presence is disrupting the peace of the city.   _ I _ find that alone unacceptable, but the decision is not mine.  Therefore, we cannot be entangled in the affairs outside of the Gallows.  Undue influence inflames the mages.  And the templars.  I know there are not a few that wish to push these heathens out.”

Cullen had heard enough barracks gossip to know she was right.  And if it came down to fighting in the street, Meredith would no doubt band with the City Guard to defend Kirkwall.  But he did not hunger in the least to cross blades with those huge, horned men.  Even with the templars and the Guard, and whatever mercs and gangsters could be scrounged up from Lowtown and Darktown, it would be a blood-bath.

“I fear that there is nothing but further unrest coming from outside.  I think a period of closing ranks will suit us.  And I have been too off-hands for too long.  I need a better measure of the ranks.  To weed out undesirable notions and reassure concerns.”

Meredith leaned back.  By now, the sun had filled the windows behind her.  The merchants below, in the outer court, were beginning to hawk their wares.  Meredith had turned into a black, indiscernible figure.

“Your thoughts?” she asked.

Cullen bent his head. “There have been too many incidents lately.  An abomination last week, an escape the one before.  Recruits dropping off like flies.  You may be right and this period will give us time to… normalize.”

“Good,” she said, with a finality that indicated dismissal.

Cullen stood, and said, “Commander.” She nodded.

“Oh, and Captain,” she said.

He stopped, hand on the door.

“Your interview’s tomorrow.”

His hand tightened, but he bobbed his head dutifully.  The door clipped quietly shut behind him.

Cullen strode down the hall to his own office.  He entered and closed the door carefully.  The office was small, the contents perfunctory, nondescript.  Its occupant could be anyone.  But it was Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford who slumped into the simple chair behind the ugly, too-large-for-the-room-desk.  He groaned, threw off his gauntlets with a clatter, and ground his palms into his eyelids.  A headache lurked at the back of his neck.

Everything Meredith said was right.  She was right, and yet…  Was it naive of him?  To hope that the Gallows could cooperate with Kirkwall, could make it better just by its presence?  Damn politics.  It always came to politics.  Was Meredith trying to push her authority by punishing the Viscount with the templars’ absence?  Guard Captain Aveline did well, but it never hurt to have help.  Perhaps he could speak to Aveline about the Qunari-

But, no, of course he couldn’t.  No association with outsiders now.  Cullen had the distinct feeling Meredith had meant his past work with that merc Hawke.  Well, no longer a merc.  She now had a fine house in Hightown.  And with that Varric Tethrys, and her friendship with Aveline, the woman had more influence than Meredith likely cared for.  He could be mistaken about Meredith; it was true that outside influence produced cases like Samson, and smuggled contraband was a problem.

Still.  None of this was how he imagined it would be.  Not as a young boy first joining the Order, not as a knight fresh to his vows in Kinloch, and not as a new Knight-Captain in the Gallows.  His entire life seemed to take one bewildering turn after the other.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Cullen said.

Recruit Thea entered, holding a bundle of notes and envelopes.  The girl was a bit peakish, but he knew from the training yard that her awkwardly thin limbs hid a vicious quickness and surprising accuracy.  

“I have your correspondence for today, Knight-Captain,” she said.

He waved her to the chair across from him.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said.

The recruit sat, handing him the papers.  She kept a small book from the bottom of the stack and produced a pen, dipping it into the inkwell on his desk.  Her sallow eyes waited as she sat back, her book open to a blank page.

Cullen began opening his mail.  He tossed to the side of the desk the letters he needed to address himself, and gave Thea the ones she could handle.  He gave her instructions on these and she wrote down his words.  Some notes did not require a reply, merely some small actions.  He also gave some of these to the recruit.

He sighed when he pulled up the next letter.  It was from Mia.

“Lord Greedybrat, ser?” Thea asked, deadpan.

His eyes shot to her, but she looked back placidly.

“Lord Griebrier, you mean?”

“Sorry, ser.  Slip of the tongue, ser.”

He pressed his lips thin and stared back at the letter in his hands.

“No.  It’s a personal matter,” he said.

His thoughts were interrupted when the sound of some commotion down the hall reverberated outside.  Recruit Thea stood, and stepped out the open door.

“Captain Cullen.”

That was Meredith, with her calm, yet firm, voice used for crises.

He stood quickly and stepped around his assistant in the hall.  Meredith looked up from where she stood in front of her door, holding a piece of parchment.  A messenger in a nobleman’s livery hovered at her shoulder.

“You, recruit,” she said to Thea. “Go fetch Orsino.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Cullen stepped closer as the girl strode away down the hall.

“Commander?” he asked.

“You remember Lord Cabon?”

“Cattle?”

“Dairy, leather, and some lumber,” the messenger said.  The muscles of his cheeks twitched.

Cullen inclined his head toward the man.  He turned back to Meredith, who handed him the letter she held.

“He’s had a riding accident this morning,” she said. “Seems it’s quite bad, and he needs a healer.”

Cullen ran an eye over the missive and then jerked his eyes back up.

“What about our new policy…?”

Meredith frowned at him. “Captain, this is a man’s life.  Healing is an essential service we provide.”  The messenger leaned in, his lips working around some statement that would no doubt be fascinating.

“You mean an essential service the  _ circle _ provides,” Orsino interjected.

He stepped to Cullen’s side, reaching only to his shoulder, and glared at Meredith.

“First Enchanter,” she said with a smile. “You are correct, of course.  Might we then ask to borrow one of your healers for Lord Cabon’s sake?  I’ll have the Knight-Captain escort them.”

Orsino crossed his arms, looking at the messenger’s velvet livery. “That will be fine-”

“Might I suggest the Trevelyan girl?” Meredith interrupted.

The messenger jumped at that name.  Cullen sighed internally.  Politics.  Always the politics.

Orsino had barely worded his consent before Meredith turned back to Cullen.

“Captain.  Lady Cabon has graciously provided us with mounts to take to their estate outside the city.  It’s not a long ride, but make haste.”

“Of course, Commander.”

As Orsino and Meredith retreated to their respective offices, he asked the Cabon messenger about the best route, and marked it on a map.  He sent Recruit Thea running for saddlebags, and then he strode down the halls and through the courts in search of Enchanter Trevelyan.

This was not the first time he’d escorted her out of the Gallows.  After her promotion to Enchanter, and since Senior Enchanter Chaya started complaining about her bones and running around the city (her words more colorful), Cullen had taken the healer on different jobs around Kirkwall.  It was true that the circle provided healing services to civilians, but it was remarkable that these services were provided exclusively to the elite of Kirkwall.  In any case, this was the first time he’d have to leave the city perimeter with a mage.

His jaw involuntarily clenched.  It wasn’t a long ride, but still.  Alone, over all that empty road, with a mage.  Cullen worked his jaw muscles loose; he didn’t have time for these intrusive thoughts.

Enchanter Trevelyan was not in the clinic.  He instructed the two healers on duty to gather supplies for her, and turned in the direction of the library at their suggestion.  Cullen found her studying at a table, books arrayed around her, and Hawke’s sister, Bethany, sitting at the other end.  She was writing, but looked up as he approached.

“Enchanter Trevelyan,” he said.

“Knight-Captain, ser,” she said, laying down her pen. “Can I help you?”

“Your services are needed.  A Lord Cabon has had a riding accident, and needs a healer badly.”

She immediately stood, saying to the Hawke sister, “Take care of my things?”

Bethany nodded, but Enchanter Trevelyan was already halfway out the library.

Cullen followed, keeping pace with her.  They strode down the halls, through the sparse traffic of mages and templars, towards the clinic.

“Cabon?  That’s outside of Kirkwall, isn’t it?  How are we getting there, ser?”

“Horseback,” Cullen said. “Lady Cabon has lent us the use of two horses.”

She glanced up at him from underneath black brows and generous lashes. “I can’t ride.”

“Oh,” he said. “We’ll- think of something.”

She said nothing, and they quickly reached the clinic.  Recruit Trea had gotten there ahead of them, and the two more junior healers were packing the saddlebags with vials and instruments.

“Put more in one,” Cullen told them. “We’ll have to ride double.”

The boys looked at the enchanter.  She gave him an inscrutable look but nodded at her juniors.

“Put the draughts in the heavier one, here-”

She helped them pack and the process was completed with speed and efficiency.  They were gone from the clinic and out in the main courtyard before Cullen could think much about his plan to ride double.  But then they were looking at the two horses tied near the main gate, and he was very much thinking about how this was going to work.

But there really wasn’t time to waste, so Cullen waved over a knight to help him tie down the bags, and tie the horses together.  They were fine-bred, with shiny, well-groomed coats and compliant personalities.  Quite unlike the headstrong, stocky Fereldan breeds he knew as a boy.  Speaking of, Trevelyan may not be able to ride at all, but that did not make Cullen an expert rider.  He dreaded the state of his thighs tomorrow morning.

Cullen swung over the mount with the lighter load.  The enchanter stared up at him with dark eyes, working her lips in a way that might have been nervousness.  He leaned down and held out his hand.

She stared at it.  Looked back up at him.

“How- how is this going to work, exactly?” she said.

“Err,” Cullen said, looking down at the saddle.  And then back at her, with her circle robes and her heavy, woolen skirt.

“Side-saddle, I think,” he offered. “Behind?”

The mage gave him a flash of a look that could have been a glare.  It was covered quickly as she grabbed onto his forearm.  He pulled, and together they swung her up behind him.  Uncertain hands slowly grasped onto him, somewhere above his navel but below his chest.  He couldn’t feel her hands much beyond the soft press of them against his breastplate, the touch of her arms on his side.

The horse whickered as his grip tightened on the reigns.  He tried to relax, tried not to think about the unnatural strength of the skeletal hands of an abomination.  She smelled of the soap every member of the Gallows used, and like a lyrium draught and like herbs--

Before his thoughts could wander much further, Cullen urged the horse on as the gatekeepers opened the portcullis.

-

It was when they were setting a brisk pace outside of Kirkwall, past the spillage of little outlying farms and homes, that Cullen actually had time to really think about this situation.  The enchanter apparently decided her tentative hold on him was not going to cut it against the jostle of the ride; she now had him firmly around the middle, fingers wound into the leather buckles of his armor.  He was bothered by this, but more bothered really by her sitting like a rock behind him.  She’d be far worse off than him in the morning.

It was true that he’d escorted her on different assignments in the city, but they had not spoken much.  He had heard more of her bedside manner than her personal manner.  She was a bit brusque with patients, especially the rich ones, but never callous.  Always professional and reassuring in her confidence.  And quite skillful with her magic.  It wasn’t a secret, exactly, that templars studied the forms and feels of magic as much as mages did; this was merely rarely alluded to, in order to better-- Well.  To be completely honest, it was to make sure mages didn’t realize that templars saw more than they let on.

In any case, Trevelyan was a skilled healer that never used an ounce more of her power than necessary.  Precise and methodical.  He’d never seen her use magic in an untoward way.  However.

Cullen directed the horses to the side of the road to allow a carriage to pass.  The day was turning sunny and mild.  Spring at its zenith.  He glanced back at the mage before retaking the road.  She had been looking at the back of his head when he turned, and so their eyes were uncomfortably close at that moment.  He turned back immediately, and then cursed himself for the awkwardness of the movement.

He had no personal reason to suspect Enchanter Trevelyan.  However.  There was the incident three years ago with her previous roommate.  The near escape of almost two dozen mages.  And the pride demon that took the lives of four templars and one mage.  Trevelyan and the ringleader, Elsa, had been close.  Still, it was Trevelyan that leaked the information about the escape route.

He knew, he  _ knew _ , it was preposterous, hypocritical, to feel this way, but Cullen could muster little respect for someone that could betray their friends.  It was cowardly, at best.  At worst, it was a trade for her privilege to move more freely than her peers.  The trips in the city.  In fact, for all he knew, it was some connection of her family’s that earned Meredith’s indulgence.

“Ser?”

Cullen started.  The enchanter had been speaking to him.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said, were there any details about Lord Cabon’s condition?” she repeated.

Cullen pulled the letter Meredith had given him from his pocket, handing it back to her.  He tried not to sigh in relief when one of her hands moved from his side to hold the paper.  She didn’t say anything for a moment, reading.

She snorted. “Of course there isn’t.  Well, we’ll see when we get there.”

She gave back the letter.  He folded it back into his pocket.

He cleared his throat. “Do you know this Cabon?”

“I know he has a daughter of marriageable age.  And he’s half a day’s ride from the Trevelyan estate.  That’s it.”

“Don’t you have a brother of marriageable age?”

The enchanter paused.  Cullen couldn’t fathom the expression she was making now.

“I fail to see what that has to do with the lord’s riding accident.  Ser.”

She said  _ ser _ with a filmy underpinning of insolence.  And Cullen found he  _ could  _ imagine the expression she was making now; those distinct brows rising and the dark eyes flashing.  And then it would be covered with a look of deference that would make him doubt what he’d saw.  Yes, that’s exactly what he’d seen several times before, and would see now if he turned around.  It rankled him.

“Just wondering, Enchanter,” Cullen finally said.

She was quiet.

“I came to the Gallows when I was seven, Captain.  My mother’s never thought it very important to include me when it came to Free Marcher politics.”

“Seven?  That’s very young.”

“I came into my magic very publicly.”

“Still, you’re nobility-”

“No, I’m not,” she interrupted. “ _ Ser _ .  I can’t own property.  So I can’t inherit, so I can’t be nobility.”

Cullen sighed.

Behind him, she shifted.

“With all due respect, Knight-Captain.  I do not mean to be impertinent.”

He could almost be convinced by this last; her tone was convincingly contrite.  Perhaps he would have been convinced before, except now he could remember those dark eyes that held a quiet challenge.

It was an old argument, the issue of mages and property.  But one only had to look to the excess of Tevinter to see the value of southern Thedas’s decree to withhold title rights from mages.  Magic provided unfair power.  Add to that the power of landholding?  Their system was perhaps an uncomfortable balance for a few, but a balance nonetheless.

The mage cleared her throat.

“If you don’t mind, when did you-”

She stopped.

“What?” he asked.

“No,” she said.  A veil of propriety shrouded her tone. “I’m sorry, ser.  It was nothing.”

Cullen said nothing.  They rode on, the excessively lovely weather the backdrop to their silence.

-

“You’re Galatea’s youngest, then?”

Lady Cabon stood against the banister of her grand staircase looking down at them.  Looking specifically at Enchanter Trevelyan.  The lady was not old, dressed fashionably, but she leaned against her banister with a curious sort of slack intensity in the slant of her body.  There was a large smear of blood across her skirt.

The enchanter bobbed to her.

“Yes, ma’am.  If you would, I should see his lordship right away.”

The lady’s red-rimmed eyes stared at them.  She turned to the servants grouped at the base of the stairs.  A limp hand waved at them.

“Someone take them,” she said.

The servants, a mix of maids and manservants, turned to look at Cullen and the mage.  As one, the group drew their breaths.  Their eyes shot away to one another.  A matronly woman, red-haired with her lips pursed, stepped forward.

“Come on, then,” she said.

Lady Cabon turned and climbed her stairs at such a slow pace, it was more like a crawl.  In contrast, Trevelyan was off so close to the servant’s heels that she was practically pushing the woman forward.  Carrying the saddlebags full of the healer’s supplies, Cullen followed, aware of the eyes of the other servants.  Or rather, he was aware of his falling in and out of the line of sight of the people around him.  This was what being a templar was.  Armoring yourself in the anonymity of membership to the Order and all its affects, and then falling into the background of the mages’ actions.  And he was falling backward out of the drama of this moment, as all eyes turned to the mystery and the promise of the enchanter’s power.

They were led through the rooms of the first floor, following a telling trail of blood on fine rugs and parquet floors.

“Put him in the second drawing room.  No way we’d get him up the stairs to the bedrooms,” the servant said.

“Anyone here saw what happened?” Trevelyan asked.

“No.  Takes his morning ride on his own.  Stubborn.  Too stubborn to admit he’s not fit enough anymore to be riding through hell and high water.  Pardon me-- err...  My lady?”

“Magda is fine.”

The woman looked back at her with a cocked brow. “Hm.  He went out at dawn, like always, and when the horse came for the lord’s breakfast instead of the lord, the boys were sent after him.  Found him-- Well.  You’ll see.”

They entered the second drawing room.

The fine furniture was in a disarray, completely unsuitable for the entertainment of company.  Most was pushed up against the walls, stacked precariously, to allow a large couch to dominate the center of the room, as if it and its occupant had scared the other chairs and tables into cowering in the corners.

The couch was heaped with a fair mountain of a man.  His voluminous riding habit was in bits and pieces, rumpled and bloody.  If he were upright, he’d be both tall and wide; he near overwhelmed the couch.  His gray hair looked sticky with blood.  A girl in servant’s black was kneeling at his side, ringing out a towel into a basin.  She stared up at them, and stood to the side at their approach.

The enchanter went to Lord Cabon.  After laying the saddlebags in a chair near the couch, Cullen settled against the wall, near the door, and fell into the vigil that was so familiar.  He did this so rarely these days -- the attentive watching of mage work, since he was more often preoccupied with a Knight-Captain’s duties.  He watched Enchanter Trevelyan.

“Open those curtains,” she ordered the matronly woman. “And what was your name?”

“Hetta,” she said. “That’s Yvette.”

“I’ll need hot water, some clean cloths, and more light in here.  Every candle lit, please.”

Trevelyan set to work.  She cut the lord from his shell of class, his ruined clothing, until he was stripped down to what he’d greet his Maker in.  She cut, too, the servants of the house until they fit a form more pleasing to her task.  And he felt the shift in the room when she formed and shaped her magic; it felt firm and urgent.  It felt as though the lord’s condition was dire indeed, but she had a tempered hand on the crisis.

From where he stood, Cullen could see that the legs were swollen and mottled, likely broken.  So was an arm, and the man’s head seemed the source of much of the blood everywhere.  He was unconscious with shallow breathing.  Trevelyan stood, sometimes slowly changing her position, with her hands hovering or lightly touching.  She seemed most often to be working around his head.

The hours dragged on.

They had reached the Cabon estate some time after noon, and it was near evening before the enchanter pulled back her magic.  She had taken a lyrium draught at one point, but even so she must be running on low reserves.  But she enlisted Hetta and some other servants in helping her set the legs and the arm.  Poultices were applied, and a dozen other mundane tasks attended to.

During this time, the lady of the house entered the room.  She was still wearing her stained dress.  She stepped to Trevelyan’s side and looked down at her husband.

“Is he…” she trailed off.

“I’ve done what I can for now,” the enchanter said. “There’s the legs and the arm, and then some ribs that punctured his lungs.  But the head wound concerns me.  I did some immediate repair on the brain, and laid down some groundwork to encourage further healing.  But time will tell if it sticks.  He may come to tomorrow.  I can’t be sure.  I’ll need to return to continue the treatment.”

Cullen stepped forward.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Lady Cabon started, as if she had forgotten he was there.  Trevelyan looked at him.  She was worn out, sagging a little with eyes a bit overbright.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “A few days may be better.  To give him more time.”

“We’ll arrange it,” Cullen said.  He turned to the lady. “We’ll take our leave-”

“I saw an abomination once,” Lady Cabon abruptly said.

The room became quiet.  The servants scattered around froze.  The lady’s eyes were set and marbled on the enchanter.  The veins on her forehead bulged and her cheeks were tight, taut.  Enchanter Trevelyan looked back at her, saying nothing.

“My cousin came to magic.  Her parents hid it.  Hid her, for  _ years _ , in their summer house near Wycome.  I didn’t know.  Went exploring.  I didn’t know.”

She worked her lips silently for a moment.  Then her eyes shot down at her husband, and darted back up to the enchanter.  She seemed to come to herself.  Her hands went to her skirt, producing a purse sagging with weight.  And, more remarkable, an envelope.  Slim and unmarked, there was no telling what sort of promises that bit of paper held.

“Give the Knight-Commander my regards,” Lady Cabon said.

The enchanter stared at the lady’s hand thrust forward with those two items.  The moment stretched.  And then Cullen cut it, putting himself forward and taking the purse and the envelope into a gauntlet.  He glanced at Trevelyan.  Her eyes were dark with bitterness, glaring.  Then her look cleared, placidity taking its place.  Cullen turned away.

“You are most generous, Lady Cabon,” he said.

She looked down. 

“No, the gratitude is mine…” she trailed off softly.  She left the room without another word.

Trevelyan gave her final instructions to the servants.  They were offered rooms for the night, which Cullen firmly refused.  They had to be back to the city before dark.  A mage off circle grounds had to be watched at all times, so…  Well.  They had to be back to the city before dark.  They were provided with the use of a carriage.

The evening was wearing on, and the sun was nearly set.  The Cabon fields rolled past, the smell of manure and the bay of distant cows drifted in one carriage window and out the other.  Cullen and Trevelyan were silent.  They sat opposite to one another.  And he could see, at the corner of his eyes, that she was staring out the carriage window.  But it was her glare that lingered in his mind.

He cleared his throat.

“The lady’s contribution will be used for the general well-being of the Gallows,” he said.  “You know that.  The services you and the healers provide are always appreciated.”

“Is that so?” she said quietly. “Don’t worry on my account, Knight-Captain, ser.”

He paused.  Flexed his jaw.

“Enchanter, this is how it’s always worked--”

“I’m aware of how things work in the Gallows, ser.  I’ve been here longer than you have.  Ser.”

They swayed and jostled with the carriage’s motion, sitting on opposite sides.  He should let it go.  He should let her stew in her resentment and her- her  _ greed _ , or whatever it was.  But her tone bothered him.  Her eyes bothered him.

“Do you even realize how fortunate you are?” Cullen asked. “All the liberties you’ve been given?  Someone like you-”

He stopped.

She stared, leaning back into the shadows of the carriage.

“What does that mean?” she said quietly.

In these close quarters, he could practically feel her breath.  Could feel her eyes burn him.  There was no magefire here, no searing flesh.  But he felt something akin to the panic of being burnt, nonetheless.  He breathed.

“I was under the impression that you and Enchanter Elsa were close-”

“That,” Trevelyan said.  “You-”

She stared at him wordlessly.  Then she began to laugh, without sincerity, and shook her head.

“All this time, I thought you were just  _ quiet _ or something,” she finally continued. “That’s too rich.  That’s just --  _ Too.  Rich. _  I suppose I can understand it if the other mages think I’m a backstabber, but a  _ templar _ ?  A templar judging me for what the  _ templars  _ did?  And Cabon’s coin -- you think I’m expecting  _ payment _ for- for  _ helping _ Meredith?”

Cullen went very, very still.  He watched her every gesture, every dart of her eyes.  He was waiting.  He was waiting for the smallest sign: an unnatural light in her eyes, a subtle gathering of power, or the tell-tale change in the range of her voice.  He had made a mistake and let his feelings get away from him.  And he  _ knew _ better than to bait a mage.  He watched her, the weak light and shadows shrouding her inflamed temper, and waited for what might be the greatest mistake of his life.

Trevelyan noticed his attention.  Her mood switched like a stifled candle.  She shrank back into the opposite corner of the carriage.  The dull and proper veil of banality descended over her again.

“Please forgive me, Knight-Captain.  I’m tired and quite lost my head for a moment.  It won’t happen again.”

Cullen swallowed.  He shrank back from her, as well.  He said nothing, and the silence stretched between them until it was engraved permanently on this moment, this brief carriage ride.  They could not get back to Kirkwall soon enough for him.  He tried not to think of her, impossible while still doing his job of watching her, and he tried not to think what she might have meant by ‘ _ A templar judging me for what templars did _ .’


End file.
